


Inter Nos

by o2doko



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o2doko/pseuds/o2doko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the beginning of 'The Devil's Foot' timeline. Holmes and Watson have temporarily retreated to Cornwall for the sake of Holmes' deteriorating health. It's March, and that might be a coincidence; but it's not one that goes unnoticed.  Spoilers for the original canon, especially 'The Empty House' and 'The Devil's Foot.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inter Nos

If he'd been more careful, he could have blended the shuffle of his shoes into the constant murmur of the sea; but subterfuge isn't exactly his strong suite and he's not making a bid for secrecy. If Holmes hadn't wanted to be caught, he wouldn't have been.

The chairs are different and the layout of the room is wrong, but the dynamic is old enough that it comes along with them wherever they go. The doctor brings the scent of the ocean and the coolness of the late March air into the cottage with him, sunlight dappling his wind-burnt cheeks as he takes his seat. He lets the clock mind the time while he minds Holmes, peacefully ignoring the book in his friend's hands and focusing instead on the nap the detective apparently isn't taking.

"Difficulty sleeping?" Watson asks after a pause, because stating the obvious is a role he's accepted without thought for a great many years.

The shadows of Holmes' face are cavernous, even in the determined wash of sunlight. The old, familiar angles are sharper now; thinner. At times Watson is prepared to swear the light pierces right through Holmes' skin as it would parchment, revealing a spidery network of over-extended nerves that spell out 'exhaustion' in their own unique hieroglyphics. In those moments he remembers that it took another physician's second opinion to pry Holmes away from London, and it hurts him.

"It's .... distracting," the detective finally offers, though he declines to elaborate. Still, it would be difficult not to understand his meaning. The sea is everywhere here; the constant murmur of the waves beyond their door has an all-enveloping quality, a habit of permeating the walls and tangling with the furniture. They can both smell the salt-spray, too, strong enough that it leaves a taste on the back of their tongues. Even out of sight, the sea remains - immense, inexorable, and overwhelming.

"It's meant to be soothing," the doctor points out gently. Holmes says nothing, but he taps his fingers skittishly over the book in his lap and Watson hears _I'm drowning_ in their nervous Morse code. Possessing over-sensitive perception is not always a blessing.

Watson leans forward to still the restless hand with one of his own. "There are old stone monuments scattered along the coastline," he reveals amiably; distraction from the distraction. "Not unlike those we encountered during our dealings with the Baskervilles. You had expressed regret then that you hadn't more time to examine them. Perhaps now is your opportunity."

Holmes has a way of ignoring comments that stray from the path of his own thoughts, and it doesn't really surprise Watson when he fails to respond now. The detective jerks his thin hand out from beneath the doctor's work-worn fingers and resumes paging through the volume. There's something almost furtive about the motion, though, and Watson senses he's being watched even though Holmes isn't looking at him. Issues of ownership are somewhat trifling in Holmes' understanding of the universe. He'd never hesitated to go through the contents of someone else's desk, borrow items from his older brother without permission when they'd resided beneath the same roof, or enter his roommate's quarters without knocking. But it's not a sentiment Watson always shares.

It's spring now, but the notebook feels like autumn as he turns the pages; looseleaf and brittle. He's trained himself to read things in handwriting and sometimes, under the pretense of skimming a specific line, he'll press the whorls of his fingerprints against Watson's familiar slant and scrawl - searching out some trace of the extraordinary in the mundane.

The doctor merely watches him, offering neither judgment nor comment. _My_ notebook, _your_ notebook - does it really matter when it's _their_ life?

"At midnight, March will end," Holmes says after a while, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. It's a risk, to be sure; without the scuffed paint on the walls and the cheerily mis-matched furniture, the ocean creeps in to wash everything else away. "What can you deduce from that?"

"Spring is coming," Watson supplies. "The sun will set; the earth will continue to turn." He already knows he'll get it wrong.

"I was refering more to the fact that April will succeed it."

"Remarkable, isn't it? Happens every year, you realize."

"You hadn't expected me to notice?"

"Well, I imagine it's the sort of thing one covers in primary school. The progression of the months is hardly an unusual phenomenon -"

" _John_." It's a tone Holmes very rarely uses with his friend, as rarely as he addresses him by his first name. All the same, Watson knows what it means. Holmes can't stand it when he's being deliberately obtuse.

They lapse into an awkward silence, Watson fidgeting in his chair and glancing towards the window, Holmes listening to the sea he can't see. Neither of them says anything for a very long time. But then:

"Six years ago, I lost you." Watson's voice is agonizingly calm and steady. "Three years ago, you returned. We're here _for your health_ , Holmes. Nothing else. If the past matters at all, it's only because it reinforces my determination not to lose you again."

In London, Watson smells like ink and medicine and maybe faintly like earth, and Holmes recognizes it as familiar ground. But right now, as the doctor leans forward to brace his strong, scarred hands on the armrests of Holmes' chair, he smells like salt and sand and it's unnerving. It forces Holmes to open his eyes. They stare at each other for a moment that stretches out the door and becomes something larger than the both of them together, heavy with all the things they still aren't sure how to say.

That maybe they don't need to say.

"For my health?" Holmes echoes softly, and something ghosts across the severe plain of his tired face - a smile, perhaps, though maybe only a shadow. "Mm. And the fact that we're far out of earshot of our closest neighbor ... alone ... has nothing to do with it?"

The tension in Watson's shoulders bleeds out through the sound of his quiet laughter. "An added benefit, I assure you," he promises. "Though one I plan to take full advantage of." He leans in closer. Holmes merely arches an inquisitive eyebrow. "... Unless, of course, you'd rather go look at those ruins?"

The detective makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat, something between a snort and a chuckle that belongs entirely to him. He arches upward to press a kiss into Watson's waiting mouth; it's as succinct an answer as either could have asked for.

The place is different, the scents are all wrong, and it's still destabilizing and overwhelming. But even here, Watson tastes like _home_ \- and for now, that's good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm currently accepting commissions; see my [gig page](http://fiverr.com/users/o2doko/gigs/write-an-original-5000-word-story-in-any-genre) for more information.


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